


through love, all is possible

by aelins



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOSF SPOILERS !!!, Book 4: A Court of Silver Flames, Daddy Kink, Drunk Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, My good boy, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Rough Sex, Size Kink, a lot of smut., but it's tamlin what did you expect?, somewhat toxic in the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29570634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins
Summary: ACOSF SPOILERS!!!!-------------After the events of ACOSF Tamlin finds his power called upon. A girl, small and full of some unholy power--but with only the will to ruin herself is saved by his power. They know at once they are mates--the bond strong within them. And Tamlin thinks--maybe she needs him and his particular brand of love just as much as he needs to be loved.
Relationships: Tamlin (ACoTaR)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 11





	through love, all is possible

**Author's Note:**

> So this doesn't have an update schedule, please subscribe if you want to learn more about Anya and Tamlin. 
> 
> Anya is Autumn Court royalty--and sister to Lucien and Eris. It will be a slow-ish burn.

They say ruin comes in degrees. They say—that if one’s trauma leaves you able to stand that it wasn’t hard enough. Tamlin knows all the degrees of ruin. Knows his beautiful palace will soon simply cease to be. His body is unkempt—fierce still—he chases prey in his beast form and eats fish out of the streams. He _could_ stand up, make things right.

He could beg for forgiveness.

He could write letters, he could do so many things.

But bitterness is a paralytic.

So nearly three years from the date he was supposed to marry the love of his life, he’s chowing down on the head of fish in his beast form. He’s still able to shift, still able to become the High Fae who rules ( _or not_ ) these lands.

He shifts after eating the fish, lets the sun shine down on his face, his legs, his back. He knows there’s no one for miles around. Knows he’s ruined himself for company—female or otherwise.

But there’s a soft cry. He shifts back into his beast form.

And realizes the cry was not from the surrounding wood, but from his head.

A vision—flowing red hair trailing behind her as she uses her fae strength and agility to run from—Beron Vanserra?

This cannot be happening, his mind begins to spin, wildly out of control—but she tries to winnow. She’s been caught with faebane. She’ll _die_.

Tamlin knows what he must do, and for once he’s not a coward.

He sweeps her away to him.

*~*~*

Anya Vanserra was the runt of the litter. The girl who’d tried to disobey her father—and failed. She runs for the Autumn Court hills, runs for freedom, her brothers, _something_. And finds herself folded between worlds. The making at the heart of her exposed to her—like a dog exposing its belly to its master.

She reappears—it smells of spring. Tamlin has shifted. He’s wearing pants, but that appears to be all.

Anya swallows hard, her mouth dry from running. Lucien had warned her of Tamlin’s temper, that he was not afraid to ruin whatever came into his possession— _but she was already ruined_.

With no prospects—mostly because of her love of anything wild, free, and beautiful—she’d been told to find a husband within the fortnight. She thought it would be easy—thought it would be a wrap by the end of the second day. She was beautiful and she knew it. But her confidence—her swagger had only scared off potential suitors.

Tamlin looks conflicted. Anya sketches a curtsey for him, “My Lord,” she meets his leaf green gaze. “I was unaware that you had the ability to winnow others.”

“I don’t.” He says shortly.

She looks confused, but she’s still making eye contact, looking at him curiously. She knows his story—all of Prythian is witness to his humiliation.

“I don’t want your pity,” Tamlin says, his back going straight.

“I didn’t offer,” Anya sighs, and there is no denying the bond that’s lodged itself like a barb in her mind.

Tamlin backs away from her—as if he knows.

“Let me return you—“ He begins.

“No,” Anya says a note of fear ringing through her voice.

“Lucien resides in the Night Court—I could take you there? And Eris is staying in a house south of the wall.”

“How do you know who I am?” Anya pouts, she’s a young fae, barely over a hundred—she was a babe for Amarantha’s reign, and can barely remember a time when Feyre and Rhysand didn’t rule over all of Prythian.

He fingers her hair, lovingly, softly. Though his hand is huge, more of a baseball mitt than a fae hand. She leans into his touch against her will.

He pulls back his hand as if burned, “Don’t— _Don’t do that_. You can’t save me.”

Anya’s eyes flash with flame, “I might be young, and small, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know neglect and loss just as well as you.”

Tamlin’s shoulder’s slump, “I—“

“Don’t bother—I didn’t want to be saved, thanks for nothing.” Anya marches around Tamlin, heading north, back toward the gate between the Autumn Court and the Spring Court.

A thousand thought play through Tamlin’s mind. How badly would he have loved to have someone love him in return? It was too painful to bear.

“Anya Vanserra—“ Tamlin calls out.

“I know, I know,” She gives him a placating hand, “Don’t worry I’ll be dead by dawn.”

Tamlin, for once has a backbone, “And if I don’t want you dead, if I don’t want my—“

She turns on her heel and snaps at him, “I don’t want a mate, so don’t even start with that shit. I don’t want anything but to smoke and drink and fuck. I don’t want to think about all the way being with you would hurt me, how I would let you consume me!”

Tamlin stays silent.

Anya mutters, “Maybe it’s better to be consumed—than to be loved.”

Tamlin knows she’s hurting—it’s a symphony of cruelty in his head. “Sweetheart,” Tamlin rubs the back of his neck and sees there are tears splashing on her cheeks.

“Don’t—just don’t ok? My father wants me dead and I have no right to live if he deems my life forfeit. Who gave you the right to play god?”

Tamlin touches her hair again, his hands soft and gentle. “You’d be welcome here. You could drink all my wine—dance in the fields. I would play you music.”

Anya takes a shuddering breath. She’d heard of the lovely fiddle music Tamlin played.

Anya’s tears seem to come faster, her red hair down—she’d been caught with her pants down—literally when Beron had terrorized her.

“Can we pretend we’re in love?”

“Always.” Tamlin scoops her small, tender body into his arms and they winnow away, winnow home.

It is a long night—Anya has nightmares and though neither of them will admit what they are to each other—Tamlin stands guard at her bed. Never bothering her unless she needed him—when dreams of flames and singed skin plagued her.

Tamlin’s mind goes to Feyre—the woman he’d loved to ruin. Somehow he’s communicated that down the bond. Anya pulls him to her, holding him in her arms, “She’s gone, my love.”

“I know.” Tamlin’s voice rings hollow.

“But I am here.”

“I know.”

“And I would very much like to help you.”

Tamlin fingers her beautiful red hair again. “I think I could love you.”

“I think I could too.”

And it is the beginning of something beautiful, something new and bright.


End file.
